“Write about what you know, Anne.” That’s was my mother’s knee-jerk response every time I mentioned my idea to finally get down to writing a book. Historically, my mother had always been an undiagnosed romance book junkie, except I couldn’t recall her ever having a moment to herself to read. Instead, she subjected us to countless hours of movie and television adaptations of her favorite love stories. Anne of Green Gables? Absolutely. Jane Eyre (the version starring Timothy Dalton only need apply, thankyouverymuch!)? Yes and yes. If I took the time to do the math, Mom had probably spent months of her life engrossed in someone else’s love, and nearly always from a completely different era. Writing about what I knew, advice from L. M. Montgomery’s leading fella, Gilbert Blythe, to his future Mrs. Blythe, was a tall order. I hadn’t led a life full of hijinks, ambition, or flirtation. The list of subjects I knew resembled a hastily-scribbled note for forgotten items from my last shopping trip. Topics I had little to no knowledge of likely could fill volumes of books, which could, in turn, pour out endlessly from countless rooms.

‘Writing what you know’ sounds like the easiest task in the world. But what happens if you write what you know and it’s so minuscule you can’t bear it?